


Under Orange Lights

by deathbystatic



Category: Original Work
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M, Romance, Tragedy, mlm, sfw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:33:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26010451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathbystatic/pseuds/deathbystatic
Summary: Jackson Redwood, the owner and proprietor of a diner in the small Arizonan town of Cintheanna, faced with pressure from all sides from his cheating wife, poor self image, and his own inner demons finally comes to terms with his life with the help of a kind semi driver named Rabbit.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 4





	1. Chapter 1- Prologue

Chapter One

The sun rises with the rancid, rotten stench of bacon grease. It is at its apex when the smell evolves into the sickening, fatty aroma of butter and oil, permeating the remainder of the day. When the sun sets, the heavy odor of beef and pork grease wafts in and lingers. Day in, day out, the omnipresent musk of liquid fat. An offensive, yet familiar smell, would dull the longer you were surrounded within it. It would invade every thread of your clothing, every fold of your skin, every follicle of hair, like it had decided your body would remain as its permanent residence. The grease smell would set up home on you, and won’t leave until a good lather and hot water chases it away.  
At Jackson’s Diner in Cintheanna, AZ, this smell was associated with mediocre meats, greasy napkins, and mediocre conversation by both it's eternally morose proprietor and the oily, sweat-stained townsfolk and truckers that frequented the establishment after an exhausting day of hard work out in the steel mill or on the highway. Jackson’s was a rallying point famous for it's atmosphere and convenience alone, as it's food was considered bland, and Jackson, the owner and one of only two employees, was inhospitable some days, and downright silent most. Jackson had inherited the joint from his father, who had inherited it from his father, so on and so forth. Despite his demeanor, Jackson, called Jack by those who knew him, was viewed favorably by his peers, and was more often than not deemed, ‘quiet but kind’.

  
Deborah, however, the strong willed waitress and a local mother, and good friend of Jack’s was the face of the restaurant, always being ever so chipper, and sweet to the customers. Deborah’s lovely attitude and plush, plus size frame made her popular amoung all the diner patrons. Mayhaps it was her soft plush like appearance, accentuated by her soft looking curly hair made that her more approachable, but Deborah was no doubt the loveliest person to step into Jackson’s. Her presence was accentuated by the presence of rough, drunk, or otherwise unruly men and women during the later hours of the day, when Jack was overwhelmed by the mass influx of customers.  
Jack was eternally grateful for her help, and made sure she was well taken care of. After all, he knew from his own mother’s experience how rough it could be to be a single mother in this area, so he wished to help her whenever he could. She was always grateful for his help, but was a proud women to the point where she would often turn down offers of days off in order to keep working.

  
“Now, I cant just leave ya here to fend for yourself, Mr. Redwood. I do appreciate your offer, I really do, but someone’s gotta keep this place afloat.” Her hard work was frequently rewarded with raises, as much as Jack could afford to, at least. She was getting on in years, but was still quite attractive to look at. Or, at least, that’s what Jack had always been told by some of the more...unpleasant visitors, of whom he would have to shoo away for Deb’s sake. Needless to say, her presence was a welcome one, and Jack was grateful for her.  
Jack himself, however, was not so kindly looking, not in his own eyes. He disliked his large frame, and broad shoulders that jutted out like rock shelves. Jack would gaze in the mirror at himself, at his disheveled, messy dark brown hair, sunken in eyes with their unfortunately hazel cores and conjure memories of his mother calling him, “a beastly thing,” and “unfortunately large”. His sharp jawline and large flat nose always felt inelegant, making Jack frequently cover his face when faced with embarrassment. His mother always wanted a fair, lean child, not the monstrous, boxy creature Jack had grown to be, and she would spare no opportunity to let him know. When Jack went to his senior prom about 16 years ago, his mother said, in front of his date: “You’re never gonna find yourself a proper, self-respecting wife looking as big as you are. You’ll scare all the good ladies off. Now the Christians, they have a good lookin’ child, nice lean build, pretty fair skin, and beautiful blonde hair. He ain’t gonna have the same issues as you, ya know?” Jack was eternally embarrassed by his mother that night, and never quite recovered. People who knew him in high school remark often talk about how quiet he’s grown, express concern for a minute or two, and then carry on. It cant all be that bad, they think, he DID marry Cynthia Winchester after all, and she’s quite the catch.  
Cynthia was as notorious for her beauty, which rivaled that of the goddess Aphrodite herself, as she was for her promiscuousness. Rumors flooded the town of Cynthia’s sexual conquests, so much to the point where none of the women in town trusted her husbands to be left alone around Jackson’s wife. The list goes: Jackson, of course, the priest Father Johnathan, Mr. Camerson the English teacher, most of the city council, Greggory Townes, the owner of the local grocery, Pete Revenson, the towns resident rich man, too many transients to count, and ,apparently, even Mrs. Lilliford, Cynthia’s hairdresser. Jack could not even go a day without having himself bombarded by rumor ran townsfolk incessantly gossiping and bringing up his wife.

  
Mr. Erickson especially loved to harass Jack in his old age. His family gave up on him years ago and left him all alone in Cintheanna, to fend for himself during his feebler years. At first, Jack was very sympathetic for the old man, even long after he’d surely gone somewhat senile. However, during recent years Mr. Erickson’s company had begun to prove needlessly tiresome, as he would come into Jackson’s and order nothing but an ice water and pester Jackson about his personal affairs.

  
“Saw your wife out and about with some gangly lookin fella on my way in, ain’t ya keeping a close eye on your wife? Ya know the rumors about her sleeping with every man that looks her way right?” He’d try and goad Jack into blowing up, but would always be very disappointed to see a mostly unaffected man would fails to utter a word in defense. “If it were my wife, I’d keep tighter reins on her. Can’t let your woman have too much freedom. That’s how they become whores.” It would be at points like these where Deborah would swoop in and usher the crass old man out of the diner on the grounds that he hadn’t purchased anything.

  
These rumors never bothered Jack, not because he knew they were false, but rather because they were in every aspect true. He had, on a plethora of unfortunate occasions, caught his wife fornicating with all manner of mongrelite men in their own bed. This had been going on for at least four or five years now, Jack couldn’t keep track anymore. At first he was outraged, of course he was, his wife, the one good thing he had, tainted their relationship. For the first year or so they would go on screaming fits, hurling insults and accusations against one another, deflecting their own pain off on the other. For the second and third year Jack no longer cared and both calmed down to the point where they would only talk at dinner or maybe in th morning, if Cynthia were there that is. Now they no longer speak and merely exist alongside each other, ghosts passing by each other in the early hours of the day or the darkest hours of night. To say that their relationship was strained would be to imply that they had one anymore. Jack would continue to pay for Cynthia’s basic needs, and Cynthia helped pay rent.

  
Jack had thought about divorce, yes, but had ultimately decided to suffer knowing his wife did not love him anymore, for fear of invoking the wrath of his extremely Catholic family, or worse, the more extreme townsfolk. Jack lived to please others, and hated making waves, so he resigned himself to the background, a gargantuan shadow, ever present, never speaking. Though Cynthia’s late night antics did indeed stir the consciousness of the public towards Jack, he refused to make things even worse for himself. Hence his abstinence from divorce, though he secretly yearned to be free from his eternal stressor of the town, it's residents, and Cynthia.  
Jack knew he wasn’t happy, and that he was standing on a brick wall of anxiety and hatred that could collapse at any moment. However, he simply failed to care.


	2. Chapter 2- To Be Alive

CHAPTER TWO

On a particularly humid morning, Jack found himself awoken by the purple hues of the early morning sun, peeking in through his old, tattered creme curtains. The empty bed, as usual, reeked of sweat and cigarette smoke, and emanated warmth that made Jack wish to remain for a little while longer. A quick glance to his left informed him in crimson numbers that it was barely six in the morning, the time during which Jack would begrudgingly drag himself from his sheets and start his routine before heading off to the diner for another day of mediocre conversation, half-assed responses, and slaving over the hot grill.  
Jack stood up, and immediately hit his head on the low hanging ceiling of their dimly lit and run down flat. He groaned in pain, rubbed his messy bed head, and headed to the grimy kitchen, making a beeline to the coffee pot. The one true love in his life was the rich, bitter smell of coffee brewing combined with the ethereal sensation of a warm shower. Nothing in the world beat that for Jack, except maybe sitting in his recliner after work with a light novel. Despite his rather brutish appearance, Jackson was a big fan of literature and had even went to college for two years with it as his major before his mother made him take over his late father’s diner, which had been ran by Deborah until Jack came along. His biggest regret in life was not finishing his degree and becoming a teacher like he had planned, his dream since Mr. Carmichael had been kind to him in high school and helped him boost his grades.

  
Jackson began prepping his favorite coffee: Folgers, black, slow brewed. He then shed his clothes and entered the bathroom, his nose filled with the warm scent of morning coffee. On his way in, Jackson looked at himself in the mirror and flinched. His nude body was offensive to his eyes, he loathed it. Too large, too angular, too fatty. The body of a grotesque creature, not the gentle man he saw himself as. Jacks eyes quickly snapped to the shower, afraid to stare too long and ruin his day. He then entered the shower, turned the nozzle, and let the warm relieving water run trails down his body, taking away the dirt, sweat, and stress from him. Jack let himself breathe.  
After a quick wash, and a cup of coffee, Jack walked through his empty living room and to the front door, shrugging on his olive green jacket that he wore every day since he graduated high school. Fumbling, he reached for his keys in his pocket, and to his annoyance, they were absent from their usual location. Cynthia had ran off with the Pinto again, leaving him stranded at the house, on a work day no less. As if to add to his misfortune, the sky cracked open and let loose a drop of water, followed by a flood of natures bullets, pounding on the tin roof.

  
“Just my goddamn luck,” he sighed, opening the front door with a loud creak.

“And she took the umbrella too!” Jack gripped the doorknob, and bit the bullet, heading out in the rain, ready for yet another half hour hike down the rural streets of Cintheanna.

  
The walk was cold, yet some part deep down within Jack enjoyed it. The winnowing of the wind wandering through his hair and the cool blue gray of the sky, dotted by dark clouds… Something about it, something primal and arcane, was life affirming, and made Jack feel tangible, scattering away the uneasiness, grounding him further in reality. He felt cool, and calm while the light mist of rainfall threw itself against his skin. The air refused to stay still, running rampantly in a violent parade that whipped up flyers and coattails.  
Though Jack knew he was going to despise the cold, he couldn’t help but feel a spark of joy at the sensation of realness that came with the frigid droplets of the mid morning sky. It was a relief to be brought from the misty haze of his daily motions. Despite his enjoyment of the light showering, Jackson rushed, worn leather work boots clomping on the wet sidewalks, until he made it to the neon lights of his grease trap of a workplace.

  
Just outside of the brightly glowing diner, was a small bridge, about forty feet ahead of the diner, adjoining the main road where the diner and it's lot lie to the overgrowth of the rural neighborhoods in Cintheanna. The bridge was rickety and old, cracks splattered across it's faded concrete like a large growth of vines, spreading and conquering a lattice fence. It was very rarely ever driven on because of it's inconveniently small size making it near impossible to get a truck or semi over it. Most transients in the town would opt for the much wider, much safer, road leading around the bridge. The bridge served no real purpose, there was no water source within miles of Cintheanna, except to cover a large crevasse in the ground, about thirty feet deep, from a long collapsed sinkhole.

  
Jack stood in front of his diner, staring at the bridge, until a particularly dark thought crossed his mind… In his daze, he remembers the first time he caught Cynthia in another mans arms, his mothers scoldings, and the whispers of the town. His thoughts swarm, a maelstrom of panic and desperation, tempered only by fear of reprimand. An exit, a solution, an escape… A warm voice snaps him out of his daze.  
Deborah’s voice, muffled by the rain, now pounding, “Jack, honey, you’re gonna catch cold if you keep standing in the rain, come on in sweetheart.”

  
“Thanks Deb, I don’t know what came over me. Sorry to bother you.”“You don't have to apologize for everything. Now come on in, we gotta open up shop, and it's freezing out here.”

  
Jack’s last day as a diner worker would then begin.


	3. Fragile

After changing into some spare, dry clothes, that Deborah, in her infinite wisdom, stored ahead of time, Jackson donned his apron, warmed the grill, and had Deborah put the coffee on. His hair was still soaked from his commute to the diner, making his normally unkempt hair into an utter rats nest. 

“You look like death Jack,” Deborah remarked while she pulled the imported beans from the storage closet. “Still having issues sleeping? You did try that white noise machine I got you for Christmas didn’t you? Helps my baby boy sleep like a charm.” 

“No, it's not that. Well, not the machine, it works great. I’m just exhausted from this work week, I guess.”

“Good thing it's it's Saturday then, huh?” Jackson’s diner closed on Sundays. This wasn’t for religious reasons, no, Jack would never sacrifice the best day for food sales for something like that; Jackson’s closed on Sundays because Jack needed a day off every week, he wasn’t as spry as he was a decade ago, in his college years. Having a day to relax was nice, and Cynthia was almost never home on weekends, so that stressor was absent from those warm afternoons, allowing the poor, tired cook to kick back in his prized Lay-Z-Boy, turn on Jeopardy for some nice background noise, and read some of his favorite books. 

They stood in silence for a moment, in a period of comfortable silence, until the chipper ring of the doorbell alerted the staff to the entrance of a customer. 

“Good morning, sweetheart, let me take your coat,” Deborah swooped in, making sure the customer was comfortable before he took a seat right in front of Jack, leaning his heavy arm on the checkered countertop. It was unusual to get customers so early in the morning, especially on rainy mornings. Typically, the townsfolk wouldn’t stir until at least nine on a good day, unless the weather was good for fishing, and the truck drivers this town relied on didn’t usually get into the diner until the latter hours of the night. The man who had just entered was unfamiliar to Jack, who had memorized the face and name of every one of his patrons, much to the surprise of some who’s visits had year long gaps between them. He was as large as Jackson, in terms of height, though his build was a lot leaner, and more rounded out with weight. His jawline was sharp and occupied by a dark field of stubble, contrasting with his messy, wispy, artificially white hair. His demeanor was jovial, with a hint of sternness, accentuated by his rich, dark irises. At a glance you could tell his was not one of the townsfolk, he lacked the dark tan that came with living in the sun drenched town of Cintheanna, and instead had the fair skin tone of a man who travels a lot, meaning he was more than likely one of the drivers who carry their load through the town and stop for the night. The only eye catching feature of his face was a scar in his left eyebrow that had turned white from age, the only mar on his otherwise pristine skin. 

The stranger spoke with a gruff, heavy voice, “So, you gonna ask me what I want, or are you gonna stare at me? It’s the hair isn’t it? One of my old buddies thought it’d be funny to switch my head and shoulders with bleach. It didn’t dye the whole thing, so I went all the way to make it look better.” He promptly shook his wet hair, scattering rain droplets across the counter. 

“Anyways, can I order, or…?” Deborah swooped in to cover for Jack, who frequently gets lost in thought and fails to properly engage the customer.

“He doesn’t talk much, honey, I’ll take your order. What’ll it be?”

“Mmm, I think I’ll have some coffee, black, and two sunny side up eggs on toast.” He then smiled promptly, and warmly, at Deborah who was scribbling down his order in the chicken scratch that only Jack and herself could read. Jack immediately went to work cracking and frying the eggs, and grilling some Butternut bread in a pan. 

“So, ya’ Jackson?”

“Yes”

“You own this place? Nice diner, one of the nicer ones.”

“Thanks”

“Is owning a business hard? I just move oil for a living, but I've been thinking ‘bout settling down.”

“Sometimes.”

The man frowned in frustration.

“I hope the eggs aren’t as dry as this conversation,” he remarked loudly. “My rear view mirror is more interesting than you, I swear to God.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Are you even listening?”

“Leave the man alone, he’s busy, I’ll keep you company if you need someone to talk to that bad,” Deborah scolded, pouring him his coffee. Jackson slide him his eggs, lightly seasoned with salt and pepper on toasted white bread. A simple, yet filling breakfast.

“Naw, it's fine. No offense, but now that my food’s ready I think I’ll just eat.” He cut into his breakfast and took a large bite, eating almost the entire egg. Something was bothering Jack about him, though he couldn’t pinpoint exactly what… His appearance wasn’t it, no, but nothing about his demeanor seemed especially note worthy either. His dialect was definitely that of someone who was raised in the south, but even that wasn’t unusual here; truckers come from all over while transporting goods around the country. It hit Jack all of a sudden. Something in the set of his jaw, in the light in his dark brown eyes, in the furrow of his brow reminded Jack of himself. An inner spirit of strong defiance, peeking from the spirit of the man, not suppressed, just dormant. It gave the man immense intrigue to Jack, as he hadn’t ever met someone so strong willed, yet so calm. The others were hot heads or drunk, egotists. 

“What’s your name, I didn’t catch it?” Jack couldn’t keep himself from asking.

“Oh, so you can talk, you were just being an ass earlier,” the man laughed, his voice bellowing across the empty diner. “My name is Redd Thornton, but all my buddies call me Rabbit, cuz of my bleached hair. Amongst other reasons…” He thundered out a jolly laugh, a genuine one, that lead even Deborah to smile a little. 

“That’s an odd name, most of the truckers who come here come with stupid little names like Thunder Runner or some other dumb crap.” Deborah remarked. 

“Well, I used to go by Red Mile until the bleach incident, now all my friends tease me with the name. I dont mind though, I could go by much worse.” He tapped his glass, signaling Deb to refill it. “I could use a bit more eggs, if that ain’t no trouble.”

Jack got quick to work making him some more eggs, as Rabbit went on for about an hour telling stories of him and his buddies rest stop antics. Deborah thoroughly enjoyed them, and Jackson listened from the sidelines. Rabbit was certainly interesting, and was refreshingly honest. He loved talking about himself, and loved the attention from it, but wasn’t in any way rude or condescending, a trait Jack admired. Despite how much he loved discussing himself, he turned the conversation back to Jack. 

“So, how’s diner life, and I swear to god if you respond with one word I will reach over this counter and give you a firm ass whoopin’”

“It's nice I guess, not a fan of the small talk, if I’m being honest.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

“It pays the bills though, and it's all I’ve got.”

“Does your wife work? Ask her if she can handle covering the bills for a month while you hunt for a new job. Sell the diner to make up for the extra cash.”

The atmosphere dropped at the mention of Cynthia.

“What, did I say something bad?”

“Please don’t bring his wife up, it's a touchy topic,” Deb attempted to whisper, but failed to keep quiet.

“Why though?”

Silence pervaded the diner as they both turned to look at Jack, who now wore his blank, apathetic expression instead of his cheerful one from moments ago. Deborah quickly cleared his empty dishes and said, “I’m sorry, but we have to keep as many seats open as possible, so if you're not eating, we’re gonna have to ask you to leave.”

“Why keep seats open when I’m the only person here?” Rabbit remarked. 

“It's our policy, no exceptions, I’m sorry.”

“Alright, alright I’ll go,” he mumbled, grabbing his coat from the coat rack. Rabbit headed towards the door, opened it, letting the roaring sound of torrential downpour into the diner, and stood for a second.

“And, hey, sorry about your wife, whatever’s up with that.” The door shut and he was gone. 

The rest of the day did little to improve Jack’s mood, and right before closing, after the day long rain finally settled, a hobbled over old man entered the diner. Mr. Erickson, the last man Jack wanted to see today. He sat his rickety body down on the diner chair, right where Deborah had just cleaned for the Garrett family previously, and ordered his usual: a water and absolutely nothing else. Begrudgingly, Jack poured the geezer his water, saying nothing. Both he and Deb were silently praying he wouldn’t say anything, and would be too tired to bother Jack. Unfortunately, this was not the case, nor was it ever. The old man lived to elicit reactions out of people, and poor Jack and Deb were his favorite targets. 

“You ever get that divorce? I heard you and yer wife were at their wits end.” He leaned in eagerly, hoping that he could finally goad Jack into reacting.

“Alright, Mr. Erickson, now’s not the night for that, drink your water and go,” scolded Deborah. 

“I ain’t got ta leave til I’m ready ta,” Erickson snapped. “Now I’ve been married twice and Ive gotta say, even my first wife didn’t get that outta hand. Says a lot about the husband when the wife just does whatever she pleases. A damn fairy of a man that lets his wife get with every man in town.” 

“Now what kind of ass-backwards logic is that? Now I ain’t gonna ask your ignorant ass to leave again, am I? We’re closing, now get a move on.” Deborah always seemed to be covering for Jack, and as much as Jack loved her for it, he felt coddled and inept, like a child. He never stopped her because she meant only the best for him, but sometimes, Jack would just prefer to endure the harassment than suffer the embarrassment of having to be protected as a grown man. Despite this, Deborah was his closest confidant, and the only person in town Jack could stand to be around.

After she finally got rid of the cantankerous old man, she sighed and said, “I’m tired, Jack, I’m gonna head on home and check up on my baby and his sitter.” Jack didn’t respond.

“Jack? Earth to Jackson.”

Jack snapped out of his daze, “Sorry, was lost in thought.” He was making up his mind.

“Well, I’ll see you Monday.” 

_ ‘No you won’t.’ _

“Enjoy your weekend, goodnight, be safe on your way home.”

_ ‘I’m tired.’ _

She left and shut the door, but Jack was no longer thinking about that. He was thinking about everything and nothing at the same time, about his marriage, about his life, about his body, about the honest trucker, about the old man, his mother, his absent father. About his failures as a husband, an employer, a citizen, a person. About rumors, about truth, about waking up to an empty bed every day, about worth. About escape, about a way out. About rest, and peace, finally peace. 

_ ‘I’m so tired.’  _

Grabbing his coat as calm as can be, he gently exited the diner, locked the door and walked. Jack walked, his thoughts racing. 

_ ‘I’m so, so tired.’  _

His feet carried themselves to the north towards the bridge.

_ ‘I want to sleep’ _

They walked ever closer.

_ ‘I’m tired of being tired.’ _

He was at the edge.

And then he wasn’t.


	4. Rabbit’s Foot

Thud.

Jack fell backwards, on his rear, onto the concrete, propelled back by a strong hand yanking him by the back of his shirt collar.

“You okay? It's awfully dark out, you need to keep an eye out. You almost fell there.”

Jack’s head felt like a timpani, being drummed on in the grand finale of a dramatic suite, a warm, loud pounding on all sides. He whipped his head around, his ears pounding with the rush of blood being pumped by his racing heart. Still heaving with adrenaline, Jack’s eyes frantically strained to make out the large, hulking form of the form who pulled him back. The shadow’s shape reached into it’s pockets, or that's how Jack saw it, and pulled out what looked like a small stick. Suddenly, Jack’s eyes were blinded, as his senses were flooded with the bright, burning yellow light of a small flashlight. The flashlight’s owner was illuminated. Rabbit.

“Even now, you ain’t much of a talker, huh?”

Jack’s voice croaked out, cracked and scratchy. At first, nothing clear came out, but after Jack cleared his throat he managed to splurt out what he wanted to say.

“I’m sorry.”

Rabbit smiled, and rubbed the back of his head letting out a nervous sounding laugh.

“Don’t worry about it. Be more careful next time, If I hadn’t caught you in my headlights, you would’ve tripped right over the edge.” There was an awkward pause, and Rabbit rocked back and forth on his feet.

“So you were walking home, right? I can give you a ride if you want. My truck is right there.” And sure enough, parked right before the bridge was a beaten up Ford Ranger, it's truck bed loaded up to the teeth with fruit crates. 

“I thought you drove semis?”

“Sometimes, this is a much smaller load to transport than normal, so I’m using my personal truck, it's much easier to get through traffic with.” Jack made a grunt of understanding.

“Anyways, my offer still stands. You need a ride? It's not safe to walk this late.” After a moment of deliberation, Jack nodded in the affirmative, he was too tired to walk home now anyways. 

“Alrighty then! Go on ahead and hop up into the passenger seat, ignore the trash.” Rabbit reached out a firm, calloused hand to Jack, and yanked him up off of the ground with a slight grunt. 

“You’re quite the big guy for such a soft spoken fellow.” Rabbit smiled ruefully, “Reminds me of my goddamned brother. Never did nothing to stand up for himself despite being the size of the whole of Appalachia. He was a good kid though, had a strong heart.” His tone was soft, catching Jack off guard, with a tinge of remorse. Jack didn’t want to pry, so he didn’t ask.

Chest still heaving, Jack and Rabbit walked to the door of the Ranger and flung open it's creaky old doors. A slew of different bottles, both booze and water bottle, followed by a stream of cans, avalanches out of the passenger side. With a crunch, Jack crushed a can of old Coca-Cola in order to heave his frame into the cracked leather of the passenger side seat. The decade old truck reeked of cigarette smoke and stale beer. 

“Uh, don't mind the mess, I just lent the old rust bucket to my brother Carter about a week ago, and I haven’t gotten ‘round to cleanin’ it yet. Still smells like his goddamned Marlboros.” Rabbit took his thick arms and brushed a mountain of trash off the passenger seat, sending a clamor of plastic bottles and old aluminum cans down onto the floor of the Ranger. He gave a firm pat on the seat, and an embarrassed smile to Jack. “Here ya go.”

Jack heaved himself up into the seat, and let out a breath of exhaustion before slamming the door shut. He reached for a seatbelt, only to find himself grasping at the air. 

“Oh, um, I forgot,” Rabbit muttered, “That seat ain’t got a seatbelt, so, just hold on. Got tore out somehow when Carter took my truck.” 

Rabbit took his spot in the drivers seat and, with a great big sputter and rumble, the truck started. He turned on his headlights and turned the truck around, though it was difficult on the small bridge. Without a word, Rabbit started driving towards town. 

“So, Jack, where ya live? Can’t drive you nowhere’s without knowing where to go!”

“252 Achilles Avenue, just north of the town square,” Jack mumbled. He wasn’t particularly fond of getting favors from people, especially strangers. Jack felt like he had burdened Rabbit by making him take time out of his day to drive him home. His poor judgment and rather unsavory decision had probably taken up Rabbit’s free time that he could have used to relax.

Most of the ride was spent in silence, the only noises being the growling of the truck as it pulled itself across Cintheanna’s streets and the rhythmic thump of Rabbit drumming his fingers on the wheel while he drove. Occasionally, he’d glance over at Jackson, and quickly back front, as if he expected Jack to break the silence first.

About a block away from Jack’s house, Rabbit cleared his throat and said, “So, we’re almost there.”

“Yep.”

“If you ever need a ride, just call me next time.”

“Yeah.”

The truck jolted to a stop on Jack’s street, hurling Jack into the dash. 

“GODDAMN, do you ever just try to hold up a conversation? I’m trying my best!” Rabbit suddenly blew up.

“I’m sorry,” Jack muttered.

Rabbit frowned, and his face flushed red.

“Don’t worry about it. We’re here.”

Without a word, Jackson stepped out of the Ranger and onto the cracked concrete of his driveway. 

Rabbit looked at him, visibly upset, not angry, but seemingly frustrated with himself. 

“Hey, I’m, uh,” he stuttered, his tone now soft and gentle. “Nevermind. If you need anything, I’ll be in town until morning. I’ll be in the inn near the diner. Just give me a call.”

With that, he shut his door and spun out of the driveway with the utmost haste. 


	5. The Flight

Jack stood for a moment in the empty driveway, awash with the yellow glow of the dimly lit interior of his home. Cynthia must be home for once, but the Pinto wasn’t in the driveway… she probably parked it in the garage. It’s not normal for her to be that considerate…

A quick lean to look around the east end of the house revealed that the Pinto was not resting inside the presumably empty garage, but was haphazardly laying about the dead lawn on the side of the house. It looked like a beaten down dog, forlorn and abandoned amongst the mix of brown and green leaves, illuminated by a bright yellow floodlight. This was more unusual to Jackson than Cynthia acting in a considerate manner. As rough as Cynthia got at night, she almost always managed to park the car in the driveway, never did she leave the car just lying about.

He approached the entrance to his home, and laid his hand on the cracked and rusted door knob. Swinging the door open with an ear splitting screech, Jackson entered the warmth and comfort of his home. It had been a long day, and an eventful night, so Jack had thought he had earned a little rest time in his Lay-Z-Boy. Jack threw his wet coat onto the coat rack and slipped his shoes off, kicking them onto the floor with a resounding clatter. On his way to the living room, he picked up his copy of the Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde, and opened to where he had cat eared the yellow pages of the novel, which were worn from use. Jackson simply wanted to sit and read that evening away, until his eyes were sunken and overfilled with sleep.

However, upon entering the living room, it quickly became clear that his evening misfortunes were not yet done multiplying. In his favorite old leather chair, in the warm leather haven that Jack had set aside for years, was Jackson’s slender blonde wife, Cynthia, drunken, but sober enough to slap Jack across the face when he entered the den.

“YOU GODDAMNED ASSHOLE!” Jack reeled back in confusion. Cynthia almost never lashed out against him, not physically, unless she was absolutely fuming. Jack could feel the red hot fury radiating from her skin, as she seethed with anger. 

“What was that for?!” exclaimed Jack, clutching his cheek, now blossoming into a bright, angry red. 

“You think I didn’t see you driving home with someone else? Huh? Who is she? Who is that whore? Huh?” Screeching, Cynthia accosted Jack, much to his bewilderment. The audacity of Cynthia sparked something within Jack, who was much too tired of this song and dance to continue. Like a tempest of vitriol, his head swarmed with retorts and attacks back, but Jack exercised restraint and bit his tongue.

“That wasn’t anybody special, Cyn, just a guy who offered me a ride home from work.” Cynthia threw her flat palm across Jack’s cheek again.

“Bullshit, fuckin’ bullshit! I know you’ve been sleeping around, Jack, I know you’ve been cheating on me from the start. You think I havent noticed how chummy you are with that old bitch Deborah? You’ve always stayed after work and hung around with her after work, doing lord knows what!” Jack couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. Cynthia, accusing him of being unfaithful? Absolutely rich.

“And what the hell are you laughing for? I oughta beat the hell out of you! Sneakin’ around my back like that!” Cynthia was screaming now, slurring her speech as she screeched.

“It ain’t like that Cynthia, calm down, get some water. You're drunk.”

“I ain’t doin nothing of the sort, you lowdown, no good bastard!”

“I’m going to bed Cynthia, we’ll talk about this in the morning. Try and sober up, there’s cold water in the refrigerator.” Jack turned around and went towards his bedroom, hoping to shake off the events of the night and reset before tomorrow morning. As Jack walked through the bedroom doorframe, a resounding CRACK echoed through his skull. Then, suddenly, a rush of searing hot pain assaulted every nerve in the back of his head. Jack whipped around to see Cynthia, holding his Louisville Slugger bat from his childhood trophy case. She heaved with anger, like an animal caged and provoked, her face contorted and cracked with alcohol boosted rage.

“I’LL KILL YOU, YOU NO GOOD SONUVA BITCH!”

Before Jack could process anything, the raging beast that his wife had become reared back and, as a blur, cracked him square in the jaw with the bat again. Jack took a couple steps back.

“Cynth, put the bat down. Calm down.”

“DON’T YOU TELL ME TO CALM DOWN, JACK, YOU’RE GONNA GET WHAT YOU FUCKING DESERVE!”

Cynthia swung again, her eyes burning with hate, cutting the air with a swift, strong swing. Jack reacted in time, deflecting the bat with his bare hands, filling the air with a resounding smack.

“Cynthia, you need to STOP.”

She only grew angrier. Jack couldn’t think of a way out. She was blocking the exit, talking isn’t working, and it’s not like Jack could tackle her out of the way. Cynthia swung again. This time, Jackson’s reflexes kicked in, and he was able to catch the bat.

Attempting to wrench the bat from her hands, Jack pulled hard, yanking the bat towards him, but sending the drunken Cynthia stumbling over herself backwards, straight into the trophy case. She looked up at him in disbelief, shock overwhelming her face. A small trickle of blood started dragging itself down her forehead, like a crimson river in a porcelain desert. With shaking hands she reached and touched her wound, caused by her falling into the sharp corner of the case, covering the tips of her fingers in the ruby liquid. And then, she laughed.

“You are so fucked.”

Cynthia let out a maniacal laugh, as she repeated, “You hear me? You’re fucking done.” Jack’s breathing got short. It felt like his lungs were filled with wet cotton balls, and his arms felt as if they weighed a million pounds. Every inch of his skin was inexplicably burning hot and cold at the same time. 

“I’m calling the cops, Jack,” she cackled, “You crossed a line you’ll never get to go back over.” 

Jack’s feet felt like concrete when he realized what was going to happen. His head was swirling.

I have to get out.

“I’ll finally be rid of you.”

I have to run.

She reached for the landline.

I cant.

The clicking of the buttons on the phone sounded louder than her rambling.

I cant stay.

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

I cant breathe.

“H-help! My husband just threw me across the living room! Please, please send someone!”

I CAN’T BREATHE.

With the force of a thousand bulls, and the speed of a pro runner, Jackson catapulted himself out of the house. Cynthia yelled something, but Jack couldn’t hear. Jackson couldn’t see either, he was a blind blur, speeding to the car, fumbling for his keys with shaking hands, no thoughts in his mind. He had become panic incarnate.

Sirens. He could hear sirens.

His chest heaving, his lungs burning, Jack turned on the car. With everything spinning and burning around him, Jackson drove like his life depended on it.

The last he saw of that town was the trucker’s motel next to the Welcome to Cintheanna! sign. 

Jack would never return there.


	6. Chapter 6- Heat Waves

Rich orange light spilled in through the pitch black shades of the Cintheanna Inn, casting a warm glow through the hot air and onto the frame of Rabbit, who began to stir from what little sleep he was able to get. Rabbit had stayed out later than he meant to, taking that diner guy home. Although he had wanted to get back to the sweet embrace of a bed as quickly as possible, he felt bad for the fellow, and couldn’t just let him walk in the dark. Rabbit turned over and remembered how miserable the poor guy looked, as if he hadn’t slept well in years. He was familiar with the tolls depression took on you, after all, Rabbit was just coming out of a long, long bout with it. They way Rabbit saw it, if helping him out could make a difference, he’d sure as hell take some time out of his day. 

I hope he’s doing all right. Poor guy looked like he’s at his wits end…

Rabbit’s thoughts were interrupted by the piercing ring of the wall phone screeching through the morning silence. Begrudgingly, Redd left the warm comfort of the inn’s bed and took a big stretch, his bones cracking like Fourth of July fireworks. The hotel beds were anything but comfortable, but it beat sleeping in the back of the pickup again, where the truck bed made Redd’s back feel like tenderized minced meat. Still, the buzz of fluorescent lights and cheap air conditioning did not make for an ideal place to sleep, yet it was leagues more preferable than sleeping in the truck like he had done so many nights before while on the road.

Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, Rabbit pulled the receiver off the wall and put it to his ear.

“Incoming call from North Lauterdale, California. Do you wish to accept this call?”

“Yeah, go ahead.”

“Hey, Rabbit!” Yelled a gruff voice from the other end. “How’s the shipment goin’?”

“Who is this?”

“Mike, who else would it be? Can’t imagine someone else would call you, ‘specially lookin’ like you do,” Mike joked. He let a hearty laugh, making Redd flinch, as he hadn’t fully woken up yet.

“Very funny Boss,” Redd yawned, sarcastically. “Now what in the good hell are you callin’ me at seven in the mornin’ for? I gotta get some rest before I drive back to North Lauterdale.”

“Askin’ bout that fruit delivery. I need that done ASAP, and then I need you to drive over to Tucson.”

“What for? I thought I took care of all my deliveries for this month Boss…”

“Uh, yeah, about that Rabbit…” 

Redd groaned. 

“Listen, it ain’t gonna be that bad, I just need you to stop up In Tucson ‘round 9, pick up a shipment of aluminum sheets and take ‘em up to Chicago. Easy.”

“Easy?! You know how long that’ll take?! Why’s it gotta be me anyhow?”

“All our other drivers in the area already got shipments to deliver,” Mike stated. “How ‘bout this? I’ll pay you overtime AND you can have next week off. Sound good?”

“All right, but I’m gonna need a truck, my ol’ pickup can’t carry a shipment that large,” Rabbit said.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it Rabbit. Just drive to the supplier and I’ll have you a truck ready.”

“Okay, Boss.”

“Alright then, drive safe.” Mike then hung up.

“This fuckin’ sucks,” bemoaned Redd, who had began to quickly throw his belongings into his old red rucksack. “And here I was, hoping for a moment’s rest.” He hastily made the inn’s bed, made sure he had all of his belongings, and let out a huge sigh. “I ain’t even got time for breakfast. Can’t make it to Tucson in time for the delivery if I stop at a diner. I’ll have to get fast food…” He wiped some sweat from his forehead.

“And it HAS to be a million degrees too?”

Leaving his key at the inn’s desk, and sliding out the front door, Redd got in his old truck and started heading towards Tucson, the road painted red by the morning desert sun. Heat waves danced across the surface of the cracked blacktop, distorting the air, as if it were a mirage. Old newspapers fluttered like ghosts in the inn’s lot, stirred up by the cars racing through Cintheanna. Rabbit wished he could stay a little longer, maybe grab a bite and check up on the diner guy. But no one stays in Cintheanna, especially not movers like Redd. Always passing from place to place, making and leaving memories. With a sigh, Rabbit rounded the last corner in the quiet little suburban town, and left.


End file.
